chapter 9
783 Words
The morning sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of the Crestwood arts building, casting long, golden beams across the hardwood floor. Inside the studio, students buzzed quietly, packing up sketchpads and charcoal pencils as the final minutes of color theory class wound down.
At her desk in the front row, Vivienne carefully capped her mixing palette, her mind still racing over the encrypted financial audit from the night before. Her encounter at Blackwood Tower had left her unsettled, but the threat of her stepmother liquidating her mother's legacy kept her laser-focused.
At the front of the room, the art instructor stood by his desk, neatly stacking a pile of charcoal sketches. As the final bell rang, he glanced up, his dark grey eyes scanning the room before locking directly onto Vivienne.
"Before everyone heads out," the instructor announced, his deep, resonant voice cutting effortlessly through the murmurs of the departing students, "Miss Vance. Remain behind for a moment and bring your portfolio to my office."
A collective murmur rippled through the room.
Across the studio, Chloe and Gemma stopped dead in their tracks, their bags slung over their shoulders. Gemma’s jaw dropped in open disbelief, while Chloe’s face flushed a furious, mottled shade of crimson.
"Are you kidding me?" Chloe hissed loudly enough for half the room to hear, glaring daggers at Vivienne. "He completely ignores us in the courtyard, yet he singles her out for private office hours? What kind of game is she playing?"
"It's pathetic," Gemma spat back, her eyes narrowing with venom. "She probably begged him for special attention. Someone needs to remind her that hiding behind faculty won't save her when her father cuts her off."
Vivienne didn't even bother turning around to dignify their toxic jealousy with a response. She simply snapped her leather portfolio shut, slung her designer bag over her shoulder with deliberate grace, and kept her chin held high as she walked toward the instructor's private office adjacent to the studio.
As she pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside, the instructor followed closely behind, shutting the door firmly behind them, instantly cutting off the angry whispers from the hallway.
The office was quiet, smelling faintly of rich cedarwood, old paper, and turpentine. It was clean and minimalist, devoid of personal clutter.
The instructor turned to face her, leaning back against the edge of his polished wooden desk. He crossed his arms over his chest, his dark shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, revealing the quiet, lean strength beneath.
"You've been distracted all morning, Vivienne," he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual academic detachment, carrying instead a probing, personal weight. "Considering what's sitting on your hard drive right now, I suppose that's to be expected."
Vivienne bristled instantly, setting her portfolio down on a side table with a sharp thud. She wrapped her arms around herself defensively, her proud glare locking onto his.
"My focus is entirely my own business," Vivienne retorted, her voice dropping into a chilly, razor-sharp register. "And if you brought me in here just to psychoanalyze me like you did in the courtyard, you're wasting your time. I didn't ask for your pity, and I certainly didn't ask for your backseat driving."
For a long, agonizing moment, the instructor stood completely still. The warmth in his grey eyes vanished, replaced once again by an impenetrable, dark frost as he stared down at her defiance.
"If you're quite finished with your speech, Miss Vance," he said coolly, his voice dropping into a flat, businesslike register. "I didn't call you in here to discuss your portfolio."
Vivienne narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms tighter. "Then why am I here?"
"I'm collecting on a debt," he replied smoothly, a dangerous hint of amusement flashing in his gaze. "You owe me for stepping in at the bistro the other night. Since we aren't friends, I expect proper compensation."
Vivienne scoffed, tossing her head back. "If you want money, send an invoice to Vance Holdings. I don't trade favors.
"I don't want your money," he interrupted, pushing off the desk and closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps before she could back away. "You're going to dinner with me tonight. Consider it the first installment of what you owe.
Vivienne's jaw dropped. "Are you out of your mind? I am not going anywhere with you."
"You don't have a choice," he murmured, his tone absolute and unyielding as he looked down at her. "Be ready at seven. i will pick you up at your residence hall.
- Writer
